CREEPERS

by Bryan Dunn

  Out here, in the middle of the desert—a caravan of camels would be more likely.

  Tommy Nguyen grabbed the coffeepot, leaned across the counter, topped off Sam’s cup and asked, “Hey Sam, how about some breakfast? Carla’s making her famous blueberry waffles this morning.”

  “Blueberry waffles?” Sam took a sip of coffee. “Can’t say no to that.”

  Tommy flashed a big smile. Everyone liked Tommy’s smile. Then he called back to the grill. “You hear that, Carla?”

  “Yeah baby, I heard,” said Carla, coming out of the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron. Carla was short and round, the polar opposite of Tommy’s willowy hundred and forty-five pounds. “You want bacon and eggs with that, Sam?”

  “Tell you what, if Tommy helps load my irrigation line, I’ll take the whole caboodle, plus a glass of orange juice.”

  “What do you think, baby?” said Carla, looking at Tommy. “You want to help him?” Carla adored Tommy. They met thirty years ago in Los Angeles, and they’d barely spent a day apart since.

  “Of course I’ll help Sam!” answered Tommy in a clipped, excited voice. “I always help the customer.”

  “Well then, bring it on, Carla,” Sam said with an exaggerated wave of his hand.

  Tran “Tommy” Nguyen had fled Vietnam in the late seventies and had come to America as one of the boat people. After arriving, he made his way to California and quickly melted into Los Angeles’s Little Saigon.

  Tommy Nguyen’s people were farmers. He’d been raised on the edge of a rice paddy. The need to be a part of the land was in his DNA. It was etched in his soul. Living in Los Angeles, he’d longed for the lush hills and exotic mist-filled valleys of his homeland.

  So, whenever Tommy had a free weekend, he wandered inland, soaking up California’s wide-open spaces, and in particular its deserts. He was fascinated by them. So much of nothing. And yet they brought him a profound sense of peace, like a good dream. To Tommy, the desert was a place where a troubled past could be buried by the sand and wind and finally be forgotten.

  Sam and Tommy were placing the last of the irrigation line in the back of Sam’s 4x4 pickup when a loud backfire caused both men to start and jerk their heads toward the street. A moment later they watched as Rufus Smoot’s battered Dodge Dart rolled up in front of Nguyen’s place and parked next to a shiny new Jeep Cherokee. There was another loud bang, then the engine stopped.

  Rufus climbed out and looked at the steam billowing from the sedan’s hood. There was a sudden hissing sound, then a geyser exploded out of the Dart’s grill, spraying a sheet of scalding water across the right side of the Cherokee.

  “Aww, come on! No! Rufus—you’re getting water all over my Jeep!” yelled Tommy, as he ran over to inspect the damage.

  Rufus Smoot—self-proclaimed water witch and erstwhile prospector—scratched his rump, looped his thumbs through the straps of his Carhartt coveralls, and then shrugged apologetically at Nguyen.

  After the thermal eruption had ceased, Tommy double-timed it to the back of the store, and—moments later emerged pushing a gas-powered washer, rolling it up next to his Jeep. “Shoot, Rufus, when you gonna fix that radiator?”

  Rufus thought about that. He rubbed his neck, pursed his lips, then pointed to a redwood tub mounted on slanting stilts. “Same day you fix that water tower, Nguyen.”

  “Sam!” Carla yelled, stepping onto the porch. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”

  Sam waved, then motioned he was coming. “Be right there, Carla.”

  Carla turned to go inside, then saw Rufus scratching his rump and looking at the hood of his car. “Hey, Rufus… I got your bowl of chili and a chocolate sundae all ready to go.”

  Breakfast! He’d almost forgotten, distracted by the car’s exploding radiator. Rufus was suddenly all business as he hitched up his coveralls and came trotting towards the grill.

  “I’m going to have a go at them facilities first, ma’am,” said Rufus, as he slipped past Carla and entered the store.

  “I swear Rufus, I think you come here more for the indoor plumbing than my home cooking.”

  “I’m not one to ignore nature’s call,” Rufus said as he yanked open the restroom door.

  “Or a soft roll of toilet paper,” laughed Tommy, stepping up to Carla.

  Chapter 23

  Sam and Rufus were seated at the counter in front of their steaming hot breakfasts. Sam pulled his plate closer and noticed the waffles were golden brown and crisp on the outside. Just the way he liked them. Heck, the way anyone with a lick of sense liked them.

  Next to the waffles on another plate were two eggs over easy and four extra thick strips of bacon. Sam took the strips of bacon, arranged them across the top of the waffle, then slipped the two eggs on top of that.

  The perfect monument to arterial plaque, he thought to himself, then chuckled.

  To the right of his food was an eight-ounce dispenser filled with maple syrup. It had a stainless steel handle with one of those slide tops. Sam hadn’t seen it here before. Carla

  must have ordered it out of that restaurant supply catalog she kept in the kitchen. Nice addition…

  Sam lifted the syrup and clicked the slide in and out a couple of times. Neat. Then, doing his best Jackson Pollock imitation, he splashed syrup across the whole mess—being sure to coat the eggs and bacon as well. Some people never grow up.

  Tough.

  Rufus had already tucked into his food and was halfway through his chili, leaving the countertop littered with chopped onions like a hailstorm had just scudded through.

  A short while later, Sam swept his last bite of waffle through a puddle of syrup and popped it in his mouth. He drained his coffee, then listened to the click click click of Rufus’s spoon as he scraped the last bits of chocolate ice cream off the bottom of the sundae dish.

  Sam looked over, shook his head, and was about to say, Why not just pick the damn thing up and lick it clean, when the grill—and the entire town—filled with a loud roar.

  It could only be one thing.

  Sam and Rufus ran out the door and onto the porch with Tommy following, just in time to see a bright yellow biplane emerge from Eller’s Garage, taxi onto the road, then pivot on its tail wheel until its nose was pointed at the center of town.

  “I can’t believe it!” yelled Sam above the engine noise. “Karl did it!”

  “Son of a buck,” croaked Rufus. “Took him the better part of three years to get that old bird running.”

  “Engine sounds good! Really nice…” Tommy said, flashing one of his megawatt smiles.

  The biplane was a 1941 Boeing PT-17. It had a 220 horsepower radial engine and a two-person open cockpit. Most people knew them as the Stearman Crop-duster—the sturdy little planes familiar to anyone driving through California’s agricultural heartland, the Central Valley.

  Boeing built ten thousand of them. A thousand are still thought to be in use—or at least airworthy. Karl Eller inherited the plane when he bought the garage. The last owner had dreamed of restoring it and spending the rest of his days hopping around the southwest in the nimble little two-seater.

  Never happened. As it turned out, the previous owner’s remaining days were cut

  short by a massive heart attack. But his dream had lived on in the form of Karl Eller—and two and half years later, the yellow bird had been restored to flight.

  Karl ran the engine up, creating a cloud of dust that swirled around the elevators, then quickly let it coast back to an idle, not wanting to stress the rebuilt engine.

  “Way to go, Karl!” Sam jumped off the porch and jogged toward the plane for a closer look.

  “Yeah!” screamed Carla, hopping up and down.

  Karl revved the engine again. Then he stood up in the cockpit and waved back to the group, not caring that his ball cap was ripped off his head by the sudden blast of prop wash. Not usually given to displays of emotion, Karl was grinning ear to ear. A kid in a candy store.

  He dro
pped back into the cockpit, and—just as he was about to add power and taxi into town—the engine hiccupped and sputtered, then finally stopped altogether.

  The town plunged into silence. Sam thought he’d suddenly gone deaf as he watched the Stearman’s prop make a final revolution and then stop. Tommy’s smile faded, and Rufus’s face fell.

  Inside the cockpit, Karl was momentarily confused. What happened? A look crossed his face. He reached forward and tapped the gas gauge. The needle jumped, then fell back, indicating the tank was empty.

  He’d run out of gas!

  A pilot’s cardinal sin.

  Karl laughed at himself for being so careless. He patted the dash and whispered, “That won’t happen again.”

  Chapter 24

  It had been almost an hour since she left the highway. Laura gripped the wheel, bounced over a rutted section of road, then had to add power as she wound up a steep, rocky hill—the final bit of elevation before the road leveled at the top of Furnace Mountain and then turned down towards the valley below.

  She slipped the car around a horseshoe bend, crested the hill—and got her first good look at Furnace Valley and the handful of buildings that made up the town.

  Directly ahead, the road widened into a turnout. It looked like a rest stop or an observation point. Laura slowed the car, then turned off the road and pulled into the rest stop, driving right up to where the land fell away and parking next to a giant saguaro that loomed over the turnout.

  The cactus was huge—tall as a tree—and looked like the kind depicted in those Roadrunner cartoons. The top was shaped like a giant fork or trident, with the middle tine jutting fifty feet into the air.

  She turned off the engine and let the dust settle as she marveled at the saguaro through the windshield.

  “Carnegia Gigantea,” she said out loud. One of the most impressive specimens she’d ever seen. And then she suddenly felt like a nerd again. Nothing she could do about it. It was in her DNA. Beecham’s the name, knowledge of the obscure is the game. What was that Huey Lewis song? “Hip to be Square.” Always made her smile.

  It really was an impressive sight. But definitely not indigenous to the area. A saguaro cactus that tall had to have been planted over a hundred and fifty years ago!

  Very cool! And thank you, Johnny Cactus-seed, wherever you are.

  Laura climbed out of the car and shut the door, sending a fine layer of dust sheeting down the windshield. She stretched, glanced around—and then was suddenly aware of the blowtorch heat, the hot sun beating down on her arms and legs.

  She thought about getting back in the car, but noticed a pencil-thin line of shade offered by the cactus. She moved to the shade, positioning herself so she was completely protected from the sun’s rays.

  Laura looked out over the valley and was overcome by its stark beauty. An abstract canvas done in taupes and browns, prostrated beneath a flawless brushstroke of azure pigment. And so utterly silent, you could almost hear the heat.

  Right on the back of that thought, a wave of self-doubt washed over her. What was she doing out here? What was she thinking?

  This was a mistake.

  This was never going to work.

  It was hard enough reconnecting with friends after a couple of years. The person she’d come to see—her father—she hadn’t talked to in a lifetime. Or at least her lifetime.

  It was hopeless. It was going to be awkward and horrible and embarrassing. Might as well just turn around and hug the cactus.

  Chapter 25

  Back at Nguyen’s Place, everyone had gathered at the grill to celebrate the resurrection of the old Stearman biplane and congratulate Karl on a job well done.

  Carla and Nguyen had gone all out, telling everyone, “Coffee and apple pie is on the house.”

  “Daisy, that’s what I’m gonna call her,” Karl said. He had finally settled on a pet name for the plane.

  “What happened to Chronic Bitcher?” Sam asked, stirring his coffee. “Much more colorful.”

  Karl forked in a chunk of apple pie and washed it down with a gulp of coffee. “Too cynical. I don’t feel that way towards her anymore. Nope, it’s going to be Daisy. Besides, it has sentimental attachment.”

  “Let me guess,” said Rufus. “Name of the girl that stood you up for your high school prom.”

  “No. God, no!” laughed Karl. “Daisy was the name of the best dammed Labrador retriever I ever owned.” He pushed his plate away and leaned back from the table. “And unlike you, Rufus, you old hermit—I actually went to my high school prom.”

  Rufus chewed on that for a moment, then shot back with, “Didn’t know they allowed dogs to them things.”

  * * *

  Outside, a VW camper bus pulled up and parked in front of the store. The engine stopped, but the music continued. Pounding speed metal—loud industrial stuff—Metallica, or maybe Nine Inch Nails, echoed out from the van and filled the town.

  Dust and dirt had turned the white camper a dirty beige. The rear window and back hatch were papered with bumper stickers: Free Tibet, Coachella 2011, Question Authority, Nirvana, Dog is My Co-Pilot, Mystery Spot, Peace, I Survived Burning Man, The Cure, Ministry, Bad Religion.

  The doors were flung open, and a collection of San Francisco street kids—a Goth, two rivetheads, and a couple of wannabe hippies—poured out onto the hardpan. Odd bedfellows indeed!

  The group was made up of two girls and three guys, all in their twenties. Lander and Maya, dressed in sandals, shorts, and tutti-frutti T-shirts, were the two 60’s throwback hippie impersonators. The remaining three—Kristin, Donnie, and Spider—were clad in a mix of camo pants, leather jackets, and Doc Martin boots. In true rivethead style, Donnie and Spider’s jackets were heavily studded front and back.

  Kristin was working the Goth thing big time. Dead girl makeup. Jet black hair moused into liberty spikes. And a pyramid-shaped stud protruding from her lower lip that completed the stay-the-fuck-away-from-me look.

  Donnie and Spider bounced into the middle of the street and began playing air guitar, writhing to the music.

  Maya began brushing Lander’s hair, trying to coax it into a ponytail, and Kristin, looking totally bored, lit a cigarette and wandered over to Nguyen’s porch.

  * * *

  Inside, Tommy was watching the group through the store window. He moved to the register when the door banged open and Donnie entered yelling, “Resupply!”

  Behind Donnie, the rest of the group surged through the door, descending on the isles like starving jackals.

  Sam, Karl, and Rufus remained in their seats, happy to watch the commotion from the diner. Carla removed her apron and hurried over to help Tommy with the rush of customers.

  “Look what the coyote dragged in,” said Rufus, shaking his head.

  Karl chuckled. “Got that about right.”

  “Those are the kids camping up at Big Caliente Hot Springs,” said Sam. “Tommy said they came in last week, bought up half the place.”

  “Looks like a damn zombie movie over there,” added Rufus. “Je-sus.”

  “The undead,” laughed Sam. “Well, I for one don’t want to get bitten on the neck and turned into a crazed flesh eater.” He pushed back from the table and stood. “Besides, I better get back, make sure Curley hasn’t burnt the place down.”

  The counter next to Tommy had been stacked with supplies—cases of beer, potato chips, canned food, bread, cold cuts, Gatorade, candy bars, cookies, you name it. Spider grabbed a jar of Slim Jims that was next to the register, started to remove a few sticks, then stopped, dropped them back in, and placed the entire jar on the top of the stack. “That too,” he said, a triumphant look on his face.

  “You want the whole jar?” asked Tommy.

  Spider flashed a goofy grin and nodded his head like a bobblehead doll, looking totally buzzed. Which he was.

  “Okay. How would you like to pay?”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Spider. He turned and yelled to Lander who was standing b
y a rack, trying on sunglasses with Maya. “Lander, dude… we need plastic over here.”

  Lander slipped on a pair of sunglasses with bright orange frames and looked at Spider. “What do you think? Are they me?”

  “Perfect. You look like a complete douche bag.”

  Lander flipped him off, then started to remove the sunglasses, stopped, pushed them

  up the bridge of his nose and stepped up to the counter. “American Express okay?”

  “Sure. As long as it’s yours,” said Tommy.

  That caused Spider to bust out laughing. “Trust me, it’s his. His old man owns half of Silicon Valley.”

  Tommy studied the card, nodded, then looked up at Lander. “You want the sunglasses too?

  Lander removed the sunglasses, then slipped them back on. “Add to cart.”

  Donnie was at the far end of the counter studying a cool little plant. It was a creeper clipping that Doc had given Nguyen earlier in the week. Donnie grabbed the pot, held it up, and yelled to Tommy, “How much for this?”

  Without missing a beat, Tommy fired back, “Twenty dollars. Very rare.”

  Donnie looked at Lander…

  “Cool. That’s totally wack-looking. We’ll take it.”

  Chapter 26

  Sam was lashing down his load of irrigation line when he noticed Kristin come out of Nguyen’s and march directly towards the camper van. She was walking with purpose, like she was on a mission.

  A minute later, a loosely packed duffle bag was tossed out the side door, then Kristin climbed out, retrieved the bag, and started back to the store.